


Rage Against the Dying Light

by kinirohana



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M, Gen, Mass Effect 2, profanity warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 02:46:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10067009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinirohana/pseuds/kinirohana
Summary: Some people think duty sustains Commander Shepard. Others, pride. Those who know her best realize it's something much less abstract:Pure, unadulterated outrage.[ An expansion of the canonical romance scene. ]





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for clicking! Hope you enjoy!

Shepard doesn’t bother with the lights as she marches past the tank of dead fish. There’s no time to clean them. No time. Her cybernetics thrum under her skin, stirred to life by the unending sea of worms writhing in her gut. She can see them glowing through some of her deeper scars as she strips off the Cerberus uniform and steps into the shower. 

Tomorrow is going to be big. Probably only in the ‘biggest disaster of your career’ kind of way, but big nonetheless. Tomorrow, she has to fight the oldest boogeymen in the galaxy. Most likely, she’ll be doing it with her boots soaked in her abducted crew’s blood. They’d set course for the Omega 4 relay immediately, yes, but…

“Fuck…” She finally gives in to the weight on her shoulders and retreats until her back is pressed to the cold steel of the shower wall. She has just enough control left to slide down to the floor and crouch like an offline mech, knees to her chest. Lacking a gun to cling to, her fingers dig trenches in her shins.

Tomorrow is going to be terrible. No matter what, even if they somehow survive with no casualties, the cold certainty of it fills her bones. Those genetic comparison exams her team stumbled across in the Collector’s ship were just field tests. Field tests. What lies in wait beyond the Relay is nothing less than the beating heart of all that sick malice. And they’ve got her crew. Doctor Chakwas, Kelly, Gabby and Kenneth, Gardner, Rolston, Patel, every last technician…

“I won’t let you have them,” she swears. A tidal surge of outrage sweeps up through her narrow chest. Harbinger’s voice echoes in her mind, a thousand taunts welling up from a black sea deeper than time. Her muscles twitch. Dark eyes stare at the water swirling down the drain. It’s difficult to decide which is more unbearable – the remaining hours until she can detonate this nervous energy, or the sheer absurdity of the Reaper’s existence. 

“Seriously! Who the fuck looks at the goddamn galaxy and decides, ‘You know what this place needs? Murderous space squids! But wait, let’s give them a special feature: irresistible brainwashing! Even evolution couldn’t come up with anything that fucked up, and evolution made fucking space cows!” By the end of her rant, Shepard’s chest heaves and she’s glaring at the shampoo like it holds responsibility for this entire mess. 

Shepard takes a deep breath. Then another. Then punches the wall. Shower, she reminds herself. She’s wasting the hot water her crew will definitely need when she personally kicks their asses straight out of hell and back onto the Normandy. Another deep breath later, the shower caddie squeaks as she jams her wrist down on the shampoo pump. She’ll show the Reapers what happens when you fuck with Vyn Shepard. 

The abuse of the shower equipment continues on, an unchecked tragedy in an uncaring universe. Shepard revels in the comforting embrace of righteous fury and indignation, a fusion which has carried her through years of hard streets, cold hands and too many responsibilities. It was this victory-lust that spurred her to leave the petty brothel guards and join a real gang, spurred her to crush the taunting of that insufferable Alliance recruiter, spurred the endurance she needed to shoot that damn Thresher Maw in its ugly face. And soon, she would unleash it on the Collectors. The odds are not in their favor. 

She mutters all of this and more into the steaming air of the shower as the final soap suds slide seamlessly down the drain. And she continues muttering her endless obscenities and threats, right up until she steps out of the shower and discovers that she is very much not alone. 

In hindsight, the lack of manual locks and doorbells is a terrible oversight on Cerberus’ part. Or maybe the oversight was in giving her a personal shower, where she was ostensibly free to rant like a loony in private.

“Uhh, hey?” Garrus shifts from one leg to the other, briefly chancing a look at Shepard. The bottle in his hand sloshes some wine onto the floor as he raises a hand to the back of his neck and looks away. “So, uh, I’m guessing now is a bad time…?” 

“…How long, Vakarian?”

“I think I came in somewhere around ‘I’ll make those robo-squid motherfuckers into calamari’, but you said that like sixteen times. Hard to guess a timeline.” She really should’ve watched the vids about turian body language, because she knew that mandible twitch had to mean something. Something she probably wants to punch him for.

“Yea, yea, real funny. How much bribery is it going to take to keep your mandibles shut?”

“Not much, given that a turian’s mandibles have almost no impact on speech. But you get points for effort.” At least she can recognize amusement when she hears it. Not that there was anything vaguely amusing about being caught in the act of crazy by your prospective interspecies liaison. 

“Yeah, I’m a goddamn pioneer of intercultural understanding. Just name a price. I may’ve completely turned you off by this point, but I can at least salvage my dignity.” Shepard sighs as she leans against the desk. Maybe she could try to leverage what cross-species sex appeal she had to win his silence? 

“Turned me off? You’re better dressed for the occasion than I am!” He gives her a thorough once-over, apparently finding something worth lingering over in the curve of her waist. “And frankly, given that fiasco with Sidonis, I’m not in any position to criticize someone else’s coping mechanisms. I’m just surprised yours doesn’t generate a body count.”

“Keep drawing us off topic and I might end up changing that.” Pushing off the desk with a sway of her hips, Shepard approaches Garrus with the saunter of a predator in its own territory. Garrus doesn’t flinch, not really, but the unease in his eyes grows as she takes her turn checking him out. 

“Now that might be a turn off. Humans aren’t one of the species who kill their mate during the act, right?” He seems to relax somewhat as they fall into the comfortable routine of their banter. An honest smile flickers around the corners of her lips.

“Not usually. We prefer to wait till childbirth to murder our mate, if we’re going to at all.”

“Guess I’m in the clear, then.” He chuckles a bit and she enjoys the sound more than she’s ready to admit to. It’s been a long time since she last heard Garrus laugh. Unfortunately, the mirth seems to melt away as he looks down at the white bottle in his hand. “Anyway, I brought wine. Best I could afford on a vigilante’s salary.”

Before she can do anything more than cross her arms and grin, he’s already hurrying over to her console and setting some terrible syntho-pop song. The smile on Shepard’s face widens as she takes in the glorious tableau which is the fierce and feared Archangel fumbling to translate turian compliments while nearly spilling wine everywhere in the process. She lets him go through the motions, amusement mounting with ever stuttered syllable in his delightful voice.

“Craaap, I knew I should’ve watched the vids! Throw me a line here, Shepard!” 

“I don’t know, I thought you were being rather sweet. Even if you are worrying too much…” She strolls over to the console and presses delete on that crime against romantic atmosphere, “And talking too much.”

“I- I just, I…,” He sighs, “I’ve seen so many things go wrong, Shepard. My work at C-Sec, what happened with Sidonis…I want something to go right, just once. Just…”

Shepard reaches out and brushes her hand against his in an attempt to pull his eyes off the floor. A foreign, gentle tide rises in her chest as she looks up to consider him. So, so different from the eager little detective she’d picked up in the Citadel, desperate to fight back and seek justice. He’s matured. There’s sorrow buried hilt-deep in him, and he still hasn’t learned how to guard his heart from it. She knows he will, one day. Just as she knows, with a bone-deep ache, that he will not learn it under her command. That terminal in the lair of the Shadow Broker still pricks at her.

Broker Dossier: Garrus Vakarian  
Former C-Sec officer. Exceptional tactical and team-building skills. Leadership potential overshadowed by Shepard. Unlikely to fully develop under Shepard’s command.

Their eyes meet. Even more desperately, she wishes it could be different. She wants him by her side as they charge through Collector lines and raise bloody hell, just like old times. But nostalgia is a dangerous drug for a soldier – as certain a killer as any bullet. As they press their foreheads together, she thinks of what they’ll face tomorrow, of what still lies beyond the galactic rim, and all the fucked-up madness in between. Garrus’ breath is grounding and familiar against her skin. Selfish as it is, she wishes to keep him by her side. For a minute, for an hour, for this mission and every one after it. 

Garrus brushes a hand against her cheek, and she battles tears as she leans into him. His words echo deep in her chest. This is ridiculous! Why did words always fail her when she was speaking for herself? 

“I know, Garrus. I want this to go right, too. Let’s just agree to try not to fuck it up by putting too much pressure on ourselves.” She wraps an arm around his waist and angles her face upward to press their noses together in a continuation of their gentle headbutt. A strange trill emanates from his throat and brings a trembling smile to her lips. Big, bad turians cooed, huh? 

“It’ll be easier knowing you’re just as out of your depth as I am. I can deal with acting like a moron as long as I’ve got company.” 

“That’s my motto every time I get on a dance floor.” Jokes are always good for reminding her not to get too sentimental. The humor seems to help Garrus, too, with the way he snorts at it. She finds the tears have retreated. 

“Are you really setting the bar for tonight that low, Shepard?” His breath puffs against her face, down her neck, pleasant and sacred. 

“Would you rather I used my standards for driving the Mako?” 

“Fair point. At least no one’s broken bones because of your dancing…yet.” 

“Hey, I apologized to Liara! She should’ve tightened the seat harness!”

“Shepard, the fact that we needed seat harnesses at all says everything.” 

“Look, you seem to be making a pretty concerted effort not to get laid tonight. Guess I might as well get some pants on…” She teases, feinting a retreat, but Garrus pulls her closer before her hand even leaves his carapace. She laughs as he hauls her into his arms, wrapping one arm around his neck and relaxing. The back of his neck is soft and exposed, as good as anywhere to start stroking her thumb. 

“Now don’t be hasty. Who said I wasn’t interested?” This close, she can see the blue of his eyes as he tilts his head. 

“Your goddamn running mouth. We’ve got roughly two hours before we have to be suited, and you’re spending it all chit-chatting.” She juts out her chin in a defiant gesture he’s almost guaranteed to miss out on. But that’s alright. They’ve never once gone into a mission with all the info they need – this ritual reaffirmation of trust is no different. And if she thinks stupid, sentimental thoughts about ‘old times’, well…Garrus had called this their last chance for calm before the storm.

“Then maybe you should give my mouth something else to do.” 

“You were this close to the right side of smooth, Vakarian.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is mainly a writing exercise to help me practice limited third person perspective and staying in one tense (my eternal enemy). Any comments on my success/failure thereof would be appreciated! 
> 
> The title is taken from the poem "Do not go gentle into that good night" by Dylan Thomas.


End file.
